State of Flux
by Jervis Tetch Madness
Summary: A state of uncertainty about what should be done, (usually following some important event) preceding the establishment of a new direction of action. Bobby Singers life had always been something normal, everyday, black and white. Until a business man with an odd accent stumbled upon his door, and changed everything into a state of flux. [Crobby]- Destiel, Sabriel. Slash. AU
1. Trench Coated Man

**Disclaimer**_: Characters are not mine! All characters belong to Supernatural._

**A/N:**_ Well, it's been a while since I've posted anything, and I really need to catch up on my Side Effects story, but that can wait while I do something about my writers block. This idea came to mind while I was reading a Ray Bradbury novel (He's fucking fantastic- Anyone who likes old Sci-fi, I say give _Fahrenheit 451_ a chance. ::Sponser::) And this just kinda.. sprung out of thin air. This title was originally going to be used for a Destiel fanfiction, but after looking over it again, I figured that I wanted more time on that plotline before I decide to make it into a story._

_This story, however, isn't in the Supernatural world, no angels or demons, just average people in a life that's in a constant State of Flux, from beginning to end._

**Summery**_: Bobby Singer was an average everyday hunter, he hunted Deer, fish, raccoons, sometimes squirrels, and if he was lucky, a bear every now and again. Life was simple, black and white, good and bad, right and wrong, there was never an in-between. If something bad happened, you deserved it, same with if something good were to occur. He raised two boys after his best friend John Winchester and his wife Mary died in a house fire, and those little kids had nowhere else to go. Once grown and fled off, he was left alone once again, hunting, and later became a researcher for fellow hunters in the area who were unequiped with what to do with certain animals, or what berries or poisonous plants or bugs to be cautious of; He was the go-to cranky drunk of the town, but he wouldn't have his simple everyday routine life any other way. That is until one autumn day, an accident, mishap, mistake, a business man knocked at his door, searching for help, that had change his life forever._

**Warning**_: (For the entire series/Not just this chapter) Homosexuality/Homophobia, Sexual encounters, mentions of Drug use/abuse, Alcoholism/Drinking, mild language, violence/Possible murder(?) death._

**Pairings**_: (Main) Bobby/Crowley [Crobby]- Dean/Castiel [Destiel]- Sam/Gabriel [Sabriel] (For later chapters) Enjoy~!_

* * *

Time, time, time, never enough or too much, it speeds by in a flash of numbers and gets lost all in itself, as well as to everyone else. There was never, and will never, be enough to go around; this is a fast paced society, people needed results and they needed them then and now. High demand, high expectations, and high outcomes, it was always too high, so high, it was always nearly out of reach.

Bobby Singer felt as if he was rushed more than he would dare admit, he may have been older but he was capable at getting things done at certain points and hitting his deadlines straight on the dot. Perhaps he was just needed too often, or maybe he just had a lot of time on his hands, but that didn't mean he didn't feel as if the world expected maybe a bit too much for his aging brain.

Or maybe he just complains too much.

Rough worn hands ran over the pages of an old book he 'borrowed' from the library a few miles off; Fingers calloused from frequent gun use, and rough from working on his '_car museum' _surrounding his house, the pads of his palm deeply scarred, with the edges roughed out from years of not necessarily kind use. His fingers pressed at the side of the soft worn page, with a flick of his thumb and he was turning it, the soft sound scraping gently as the page settled.

Too many calls in a single day; Ellen and Jo needed several tips on how to set up an old Raccoon trap, Rufus called in on a Rat infestation on on how best to deal with it, although Bobby wasn't the one you should call for 'Pest control' he did know a thing or two. Sam needed information on how to deal with catching a few bear's that were lurking around his neighborhood, while a few old friends had rang in for some simple 'wilderness survival' tips that he was _sure_ had to of been second nature, but it wouldn't be the first time he had been proven wrong.

Right now, he had to look for what kind of insect had been causing this strange outbreak up in Virginia where Dean and his wife Lisa lived; It seems that Ben had been infected and they just wanted to know what they're dealing with. Their doctor, or whoever-the-hell-they-went-to-for-medical-help couldn't put a diagnosis for some disease they had expected it to be, and said it had been a severe allergic reaction. That seemed normal enough, but then again, there was a catch. Seems to be that all the children under the age of 17 and above 3 had caught the damn thing, and there were bumps, (Which looked like bite marks) all over the kids bodies.

Dean saw the same thing he did, and called him up instantly.

Bobby had been sitting there for maybe hours, although it felt like decades, back having been hunched over for a good majority of the time, and slowly beginning to ache with the lack of movement it was suffering from, especially in such a laboring position. The hunter let a heavy sigh pass his thin lips, a hand moving to scratch the side of his bearded chin, before pushing against the arms of his chair to stand.

Too many bugs on too many pages in too many books, his head hurt.

Bobby loved reading, almost as much as he loved hunting, but not everyone can sit for hours researching for something they weren't even entirely sure they could find. Poisonous bugs, 8-legged insects with fangs, cockroaches with a backbone, and too many with wings to willingly count.

Placing a heavy hand on his hips, he leaned backward, cracking his back in the process, hearing the faint _pops _as he did so, before straightening himself out, another puff of air escaping his lips. Rough hands moved over his tired face, reaching to pull his worn-out baseball cap, running his fingers through his ruffled hair before plopping it back down onto his head.

It was always the same, every single last day. Wake up, barely get something to eat before bombarded with phone calls, spend a majority of the day in a chair with his face stuffed in a book, _maybe _take a bathroom break, forget the meals until he was finished, before perhaps taking a shower, and if he was lucky, he may be able to work on that old 67' Chevy Impala that was brought to him with the boys inside, tucked in their car seats and sleeping; he's kept all three safe ever since. Bobby liked the car, but he knew that Dean was dying to get his hands on it.

Every day was a still routine of get up, work, go to bed. Back and forth like a windmill, or the beat of a metronome, it was steady, and barely changed, maybe tweaked sometimes, but it never tampers his everyday life. After Karen had died, every outside source, every extra activity, everything, was cut. He stayed simple and forgot all those people who connected him to his late wife, who trapped him in her memory when all he wanted was to be free of the melancholy state that a mourning husband should be in. He dedicated his life to hunting and helping, and that wasn't going to change anytime soon.

Bobby stepped into his dirty old kitchen, his heavy eyes glancing momentarily at the dishes stacked mountain high in his sink, but decided to hold it off for another day like he always did, before his hand slipped across the cool handle of his fridge, prying it open.

It was empty, for the most part, some left over Chinese food from last week still sat in the middle, with some beer bottles and a few aluminum wrapped _somethings _he didn't dare touch, afraid it might lash back. He eyed the inside door, and saw the average ketchup bottle, half-empty mustard, Jam, and a few packages of soy sauce.

Looks like Take-out again.

If Karen could see him now; Bobby felt a sad chuckle pass his lips. She would probably scold at him for being so sloppy, for the lack of care he took to his body, how he barely ate, or gave a rats-ass about his health or hygiene. He still showered occasionally, and brushed his teeth frequently like a good boy, but sometimes the simple human necessity just slipped over his head and he find himself engrossed in something before wearing himself cold.

She'd be disappointed, with a smile on her face.

Closing the fridge, he made his way over piles of paper and scattered books before grabbing the phone, dialling in the familiar number and ordering Chinese once again, same dish, same rice, same sauce, and same man over the phone. It was the same, and Bobby couldn't find any room to complain; he enjoyed the routine and the safety he felt under it, he liked the familiar sounds of voices, and the recognisable taste on his tongue, the smell of an old book read far too many times, the sound of pages, and sight of a freshly opened beer, and how the cold frosted waves of white air would just burst from the tip when he opened up a new bottle.

The man's rasped voice on the other end gave the time that the food should show, which the hunter could probably recite by now, and hung up. The phone was placed on top of the table where he had snatched it, and the elder man leaned against the wooden table.

He really should be looking at those insects.

Poisonous insects, 8-legged insects, dying, living, dangerous. All of the above, but not limited to. The elder man mumbled under his breath. Dean needed him to be on track right now, for Ben's sake. Bobby grumbled, but forced himself to push off of the table; the moment his hands slide away from the wooden top, there was a heavy knocking on his front door.

Bobby glanced over at the doors general direction, an eyebrow raising slightly on his weary face. Either the Chinese food place had already knew he was going to call, or it was Rufus again. Both were equally terrifying.

The hunter stepped over the mess covering his floor, and mentally scheduled a day where he was justing going to put all the books back on their shelves. Perhaps he'll call over one of the boys and see if they'll help out, it'd be great to have some company while he sorted through the mess.

Half-way to the door, the pounding started up again. "I'm comin', I'm comin'." He shouted loosely, somewhat annoyed, but didn't think much of it. He stepped over a few coats that had fallen, and instinctively reached down and put them back on the rack, before reaching to grab the door handle.

The evening sun was beginning to set, Bobby could tell by how the sky was a deep red, with a vivid orange lacing around the edges. The bitter sweet smell of fallen autumn leaves brushed against the hunters face, who payed it little to no mind, allowing the cool air to blow past him, stirring up some papers from behind him.

Bobby gave a somewhat surprised look at the man standing in front of him, not at the fact that he didn't want to see him, but more on the fact that he hadn't any goddamn idea on who he was. Half-expecting it to be a 'friend' or someone he ended up helping more than he liked; Bobby never got random visitors, especially from strangers.

"Can I help you?" Bobby muttered carefully, eyeing the man in his doorway over.

He was a bit shorter than the hunter, but not by much. He was wearing a sort of formal attire, that looked recently tattered, if not originally expensive; All black clothes it seemed, like the guy was headed to some sort of funeral or something of the like. Black kaki's, black button up shirt under a soft looking black trench coat that looked custom made; Black shined shoes. Guy looked real tidy.

"Ah, yes," The man uttered, his voice sounded a bit strange. He definitely wasn't from around here, he doesn't even sound like he's from America; but Bobby couldn't exactly place the accent off the back. "I've been in a bit of an accident," The pale man turned his head to look behind himself, for a moment before turning his attention back to the hunter. "My phone's dead as a door nail, and I couldn't contact for any help. Mind if I use your phone?"

Bobby stood dumbly in the door for a split second. Could he really turn this guy down? Course not, poor guy's probably been through enough, and maybe had the door slammed in his face already. Bobby only missed a beat, before stepping aside.

"Not at all, C'mon in." He muttered, letting the man brush by him, uttering a small '_thank you.'_

"Sorry, 'bout the mess," Bobby said was a twinge of dissatisfaction, "Hadn't expected anyone to come over."

"It's quite alright," The trench coated man stated, eyes taking in the scenery a moment before they spotted the phone, still resting on the wooden table where Bobby left it moments ago. He stepped over books and clutter, careful not to harm anything before grabbing the device, thumbs quickly moving over the dials in a rhythm that showed the man had a bit of experience with such devices, unlike most who lived down here.

Bringing the phone to his ear, Bobby watched as he waited, the soft sound of beeps echoing before their was a distinct click, and a voice muffled on the other end. "It's me- Ah, yes, well, there has been a bit of an accident-" The trench coated man spoke to the other person on the phone, and Bobby thought it wise to let him be. Turning around he looked at the clutter on his desk, grunting slightly, his hands grabbed the pile of books, before straightening them out.

He could hear the accented voice behind him explain his current situation, but didn't really listen to the words. Moving, Bobby begin placing the books onto his shelf, clearing off his desk and finally straightening a few pages before he heard the sound of a clearing throat behind him. The hunter looked up from the wooden desk, the trenched man standing with his hands in his trench coat pockets, the phone set on the side table.

"I'll be out of your hair in a few minutes, I apologize for intruding in on you home like this."

"It's not a problem," Bobby gave a polite smile, "I would have wanted the same done for me."

"Of corse." The trench coated man fell silent after that, his eyes wandering around the room, taking in the cluttered sight, but showed no distinct reaction towards it. The silence made the hunter somewhat uncomfortable. Their was a stranger in his house, might as well talk to 'em.

"So what exactly happened out there?" Bobby heard himself saying, drawing those sharp dark eyes back in his direction. Bobby didn't really look at the guy from the door, other than by his attire, and got a decent look at him.

Noted, the man was very pale, dark hair, to which the hunter couldn't decide if it was ebony or brunette, but didn't think about it too much. He had a round face, with a soft stubble, and a sort of subtle pudgyness about him, that wasn't fat, nor thin; With these deep piercing eyes, the lighting in the room preventing the hunter from seeing the color.

"Car accident," The trench coated man answered, voice a soft annoyed growl, sounding as if this wasn't the first time his car decided to fly away from him. "My bloody engine failed, and now I'm late for an appointment." Their was a sort of light that flashed across his face, like a dawning, before he stepped forward. "How rude of me, I never introduced myself." He held out his hand, to which the hunter took firmly in his own, black leather against rough skin. "The name's Fergus McLeod, but you can call me Crowley."

"Robert Singer, but Bobby work's fine too." Dropping the man's hand, he watched as Crowley straightened up his trench coat. "You alright?"

"Peachy," Crowley frowned, but shrugged it off. "The car is a piece of junk."

"I could get a look at it, if you want." Bobby wasn't sure why he offered, seemed like the polite thing to do. Afterall, this guys probably rich and can buy a few brand new cars if he decided; he was surprised when the man smiled at him.

"Oh you don't have to do that," He waved, "I just met you, I'm not going to force you on your knees and work for me."

"It's no trouble," Bobby amended, "If you couldn't tell, I don't got much else to do," He waved idly a moment, obviously referring to the thousands of cars outside of his house, and the clutter building up inside, "Workin' on cars is the least of my worries."

"You don't mind?"

"Well 'corse not, wouldn't want another accident, now would you?" Crowley let off this light chuckle.

"I supposed I don't."

Bobby chuckled himself, it felt good to chuckle, he should do it more often. "Is someone coming to get you?"

"Yes, Meg, the new intern," Crowley answered, with a slight twinge of distaste on his tongue, "Can never get good help these days."

Bobby nodded absent mindedly, silently wondering what he did for a living, but was cut off by another knocking at the door. "One second." He muttered to the man, before heading off to the door, opening it up once again.

A woman stood there, dark hair, with a sort of temperate attitude hanging on her shoulder. Still not the Chinese delivery guy.

"Think your rides here," Bobby called over his shoulder. Crowley appeared beside him in a moment, before giving him a small smile.

"Thank you Robert for your hospitality." Robert, nobody calls him Robert. It was almost weird to hear. Bobby nodded, uttering an '_any time,' _and the man patted the side of his vest, as if an awkward try to thank him, before nodding to.. _Meg _Bobby guessed, and stepping out of the door.

The hunter watched them walk away for a moment before closing the door, running a hand over his face. He's had two random visits already, and his Chinese still wasn't here. Bobby could hear his stomach making unpleasant noises at him, a hand idly moving to his abdomen until something hard in his pocket brushed crossed his hand.

Bobby thought nothing of it, before walking into the room once again, eyes dragging over his desk a moment, before they landed on the floor. He really did need to pick up in here.

Minutes passed by and one by one, each book found its original home back on his shelf, papers were stacked and filed away into the drawers of his desk, until the room finally looked half-way decent. His eyes darted over to the kitchen where the stack of Dishes were, mountain high in his sink, and only frowned at them. Shrugging it off when he heard another knock on his door. He muttered under his breath, opening up the door for the third, and hopefully, final time that day.

"Hey, Bobby." The Chinese delivery guy smiled up at the hunter.

"Hey Justin, good see'n you." Justin nodded at this, handing over the food, telling the hunter the amount, which they both knew was unnecessary, before waving his goodbye. Justin was nice, he was the only delivery boy that Bobby ever let keep the change.

Bobby set the food on his clear desk, walking over to the book shelf once again and pulling out the insect book from before. Dean was still waiting to hear from him.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in utter silence, save for the quiet chewing and the soft flutter of pages. Bobby looked over every possible insect or virus that it could be, which was limited, before scribbling it all down, along with the page numbers, doggy-ear'ing the pages, and finally putting the book aside.

He had already forgotten about the strange man that showed up earlier, with his funny accent and clean cut attire that looked somewhat disheveled, his mind back onto that 'same old' drive it was so used to being on.

It was getting late, and Bobby thought it best if he were to finally get some sleep, it'd do him some good. Pulling off his vest and placing it on the rack, he heard a soft 'jingle' that caught his attention. Pausing in his movements, Bobby listened, but when he didn't hear it again, he finished placing the vest up, only to hear the sound again.

The hunter made a face, patting down his vest until something hard in the pocket brushed against his hand.

Bobby raised a brow, reaching inside and feeling the lining of cold metal brush against his fingertips. Pulling it out, it looked like a set of keys. It took the hunter a moment to register that, that was the reason he was patted earlier when the man named Crowley had left; he slipped him his car keys.

Looked like the man had a Ford, if the print on the side of the keys was something to go by. Bobby reached into the pocket again, to make sure that was it, but was surprised when his hand slipped against a piece of paper, pulling it out, he examined it, seeing it was some sort of business card. The words '_Purgatory Placements' _printed out neatly on the front, with a number printed underneath it, the name _Fergus McLeod _in the center. He turned the small card over to see a message scrawled out in neat handwriting.

_The keys are in your pocket, and the car is halfway down the road, a little less than a mile from here. Call me when you're done, or if you need anything. -Crowley_

Bobby couldn't help but chuckle to himself, grabbing the vest and slipping it back on, before opening the door. What the hell had he gotten himself into?

* * *

_First chapter, any thoughts? I'm going to bring in the boys a bit in later chapters, and talk about their relationships. I know I said that their will be Destiel, and that the story said that Dean was married to Lisa- It'll work out. I hope you guys liked so far, just let me know. Thank you for reading, and don't forget to review~! LLAP ^^_


	2. Call it Payment

**Disclaimer**_: Characters are not mine! All characters belong to Supernatural._

**A/N:**_ Thank all of those who sat down and read my story, and for those of you who reviewed. ^^ This story is going to be maybe (At the very bare least) 20 chapters long, although I'm aiming for some serious "Double-Digits." Maybe 40 Chapters, I haven't decided quite yet, I just know it's going to be long. This should be updated at least every week, and maybe I'll pick out a day in which I'm free and can promise frequent weekly updates, but I don't know just yet. Feel free to yell at me whenever you see it fit, (If there are a bunch of misspellings [Which their shouldn't be] or if I'm taking too long to update, making too short or too long of chapters, etc.) I love reviews, Constructive criticism, and Flames. Let me know what you think, or if something should be fixed up. I'm all ears. Thank you once again~! ^^ Enjoy!_

**Warning: **_Mild language, alcohol, and my complete lack of vehical knowledge._

* * *

An old black 70' Ford Maverick, almost as good as the 67 Chevy Impala, but not quite. The car was nice, to say the least; Shined frame, the coating was slicked and sleek, with the '2-Door Coup', the extra 2 doors having not been added until Brazil had created the Station-wagon version in 1978. The seats were furnished, the tires were in good condition, much like everything else on the vehical.

Bobby just _couldn't _find a single damn thing wrong with it.

The hunt to go collect the piece of machinery had been one of question. He had wondered what condition it would have been in, how destroyed and rusted, he was looking for a piece of _junk, _not a work of art.

Forget what Crowley said. Bobby couldn't even _remember _the last time he'd _seen_ a car so well taken care of. The oil had been changed, not to mention it was a top quality brand; Engines were in functioning order, not to mention a shined up, and geared 170 CID 16 under his hood. The brakes worked just fine, reverse was set and locked, the meter's weren't damaged, gas tank contained a fair amount of gas; Hell, there wasn't even a gas _leak, _not even so much as a _smudge _on the windshield. Bobby had checked in, out, around, and within the car, and there was nothing to find.

Bobby sat in the driver seat, the hood pulled up on the car, and the tires having been removed. The hunter sighed, running a grease covered hand over his face, smearing some of the black goo onto his face and into his beard. Pushing himself out of the car, and into his garage, he looked down at his tool, which were scattered around in no particular order. Everything was a mess, and he mentally scowled himself.

Why was everything always such a clutter, why was everything so filthy, messy, out of place? It's like nothing ever had a place to begin with, like it never belonged. Why doesn't anything belong? The hammer goes with the nails, while the screw driver goes with the screws, but then were do you place them? In a bucket? Then what? You could set the place up nice and tidy, but in the end it'll be misplaced, disorganized, a disaster.

Bobby can't remember this room ever being clean, or at least in _some _sort of order.

Wiping his greasy hands on the front of his pants, he turned to look at the car again. He'd never been so stumped on finding the problem. _Any _problem for that matter.

It's been about 5 days or so since he'd last seen Crowley, and that was when he was walking out the door, having sneakily slid his keys into the hunters pockets. Bobby hadn't even heard from him, but he supposed that was mostly because the man didn't have his number, and Bobby found it fruitless to call him without having had any progress.

It was like walking to your customers without their food, just to say hi.

Bobby looked up and checked the digital clock on the other side of the garage, hanging over his power tools. The hunter mumbled under his breath, it was too damn early in the day to be this tired. He hadn't eaten, in what felt like an eternity, his stomach protesting every other moment or chance that it got, slowing the hunter down every step of the way.

The silent grumbling was nearly deafening to his ears, feeling the vibrations in his lower abdomen, almost as if it was begging to be fed, begging for _something. _Bobby attempted to shrug it off, but the feeling was getting worse. Shaking his head, his eyes darted downward to look inside of the car one last time.

He wondered vaguely on whether or not the car was the one with the problems.

Groaning, Bobby grabbed the hood and slammed it back down, placing parts of the car back in place. Wheel after wheel, after wheel put back on after the tires were shifted and bolted back down. Cleaning off any smudges or grease that he had put on the outer-shell, he closed up the Maverick with a bit of a huff, grabbing a dirty rag and attempting to take off some of the grease attached over his palms.

The oily, stickiness that felt so familiar, and vaguely boarding on welcomed and unpleasant, Bobby tossed the filthy rag over on the table a meter or so away from him, pressed against the wall, as he reached for his tools. Carelessly, he snatched each one, before tossing them into their containers and shoving or kicking them off to the side to deal with later. Heavy stepping his way back inside, his heels scraping against the gravel and dirt, mixing together into an abnormal scratchy clump of a sound that reverberated and resounded as he lifted his heel once again.

Making it up his back steps, sound, phone, _balls._

Bobby cursed, running up the last few steps, and opening up his back door, not bothering to close it as he bee-lined it for the phone, snatching it up off the side table, before his thumb quickly pressed '_send' _pulling the receiver to his ear.

Fifth call of the day, another false alarm, still no update on Ben's condition. Bobby sighed, but didn't put the phone down, listening for the reason of the call, before he'd decide whether or not it was worth his time or not. Either way, he always ended up doing it, regardless, he couldn't tell anyone no.

Bobby, half-listening to Ellen, was still a bit worried about how Dean handled the Virus, or if he was able to figure it out. The older man had been so worried, especially when Dean was so frantic, completely and utterly panicked, jolting down the information before quickly hanging up without even a damn decent _goodbye, _or even _thank you. _Bobby was worried, Bobby'll always be worried or concerned for those boys, it was his job, and having gone so long without an update was leaving the hunter edgy.

Bobby could hear himself speaking to her, he could hear was he was saying, and that she was responding, but he didn't know what was coming out of his mouth, he wasn't listening. He barely registered hanging up until he did so, the conversation vague on his mind, and almost barely there. He needed a drink.

Some kind of mixture, something he hadn't had in a while. Bobby stretched his arms absent-mindedly, stepping out of his 'library,' his steel toed boots thudding heavily against the once cluttered ground, reaching out and pulling the fridge open. Soft frisk of a sound, as the edges pulled apart from the metal, like it was made up of glue, and the soft illuminating light flickered to life. The hunter reached inside, pulling out a beer, letting the door slip shut as he pushed himself back into the 'library.'

Pulling off the tip, the cap gave an obscene _pop _before the brisk flush of white frost floated out of the opening, chilling the palm of the hunters hand, bringing the drink up to his lips.

Liquid ice washed over his tongue, and the tang of the bitter sweet sting was nothing compared to the few whiskey bottles he had stored under the sink, but he needed something cool, something refreshing, not soul stripping. There was no burn as it swam down his throat, their wouldn't be, not even a buzz. He pull the drink away, swallowing, his fingers stretching over the top, letting the small sheen of condensation run against the pads of his fingers.

There was a surging ring, loud and profound, over and over, _ring ring ring. _Grumbling to himself, he set the beer onto the table, the glass clanking against the wooden platform as he snatched the phone, wiping the water from his hands on the butt of his pants, pressing '_send_'.

"Yeah, whaddaya want?" He grunted, turning and leaning against the table.

"_Robert? Is this you?" _The softly gruff accented voice reverberated through the other end, causing the older man to nearly choke. Crowley? How'd that guy get his number?

"_Blast, I swore this was the right number-"_

"No, Crowley," Bobby cleared his throat, "Yeah, it's me."

A pause, "_Ah, good. I was hoping I'd hear from you sooner, but I never got that update-"_

"I didn't have an update to give," Bobby muttered, eyes glancing at his feet momentarily before darting about, moving the arm from his side to grasp around his middle. "Couldn't find much wrong with the thing; real nice car by the way." A breath, "How'd you find my number?"

A beat, "_Wasn't that hard, looking for the only Robert Singer in South Dakota in the phone book didn't take black magic."_

Bobby would have laughed, but ended up using a small chuckle, "Yeah well, now that you mention it, I should probably get that fixed."

"_Oh, don't be like that." _another chuckle, "_I'll swing by later to pick it up, sevenish sound flat?"_

Bobby muddled on the wording for a moment, the slow interpretation clicked, _I'll pick it up at seven. _Goddamn, why couldn't he just say that? _Where the hell was this guy from anyways? London? _"Yeah, see you then."

"_Tata." _The line went dead, Bobby looked at the phone a moment, before making a slick roll of the eyes.

The day moved like a film set on _rewind _and time ticked off but never seemed to move. He'd gotton a few other calls after that, and then two on his own personal cell. What was a man who didn't have a job need two phones for? Well, his personal number was only given to two people, Sam and Dean, who only used that number when it was of serious import, otherwise it was the land line. Sam, unlike Dean, thought updates on the outside world were very important, knowing the old man doesn't get out much.

Two text messages.

Both from Sam.

The boy acted like Bobby had no idea how to turn on the damn TV.

His eyes shifted over to the old dusty screen off to the side, facing the couch, but covered in pages and books; it could easily have been mistaken for a table, seeing as the back juts out with a paper covering that mocks wood at it's very sight. It was a dinosaur, older than God 'emself, or at least Bobby liked to believe so, merely shrugging and looking back at the book resting in his lap. He can turn it on when ever he wants to, he just doesn't.

Maybe _that's _what Sam's gettin' at.

Seconds ticked to minutes, ticked to hours, _tick tick tick, _the snap of a minute hand that wasn't even in the house, but Bobby could still hear it mocking him. The only clock he had was his watch, and the digital in his garage, no need for time here, none what so ever. He had nothing to _need _a clock for, he had a internal alarm clock, wake up, go to bed. His stomach was his food alarm, and the pains in his lower half signal when it's time to use the washroom. The phone rings, _Oh! Time for a job. _It goes on and on, and it'll never stop.

Glancing at his watch, it was getting later, but still not time. Not time, not time, never time, time, time, never enough, or too much. Hadn't he been in this debate before? Always arguing with himself, he can never agree on anything without second guessing himself. It has a lot to do with all this time on his hands and never having anyone around. Only voices he ever hears is the static over the phone, rarely people come to see him; Why would they want to? He was only a speed-dial away.

Yeah, that's what he was. Speed dial.

He was probably called as much a 911, perhaps more. The number in the book right under it, Bobby chuckled sadly to himself. He could already imagine the text underneath _Emergency _being _you gotta problem? This guy'll fix it. _The hunter frowned, idly dragging his his fingers over the aging pages of his book.

There was a subtle knocking at the door, Bobby turned his head in the direction of his front door when the knocking sounded again. Wait, that wasn't- Bobby cocked a brow, turning his head to face his back entry way instead, looking through the open kitchen doorway, before pushing himself from his seat, putting a doggy-ear on his page before carelessly tossing it on his desk.

Walking to the back door, he pulled it open.

"Hello, Robert."

"Crowley," Bobby greeted. The hunter had expected a quick come and go visit, like all visits, and to get back to his book, but his plans were suddenly altered when the shorter male brought forth a clear bottle with a golden liquid swimming inside; the hunter eyes it carefully, before raising a brow, eye looking upward, catching the mans devilish smirk.

"What's that for?"

"Call it payment for the car work. We never did discuss numbers."

Bobby waved off the comment, "It was a favor," The hunter mumbled, "You were in an accident, wasn't gonna force you to pay for help."

There was a thoughtful look on the business mans face for a moment, "Their are not many people who share your views."

"That's what makes them mine, I've never been one for sharin'." The comment made the shorter man grin before straightening his jacket. His hand moved over the top of the bottle, as if remembering something.

"Glencraig."

Bobby made a face, "What?"

"Glencraig," Crowley held up the bottle once again, "Although I prefer to call it Craig, some beg to differ." He smirked, "Good drink, if aged 30 years at least. I've been drinking it since grade school."

Bobby felt his lips tugging upward at this, "You're different, I'll give you that."

Crowley smirked, "Oh come now Robert, If I hadn't given off a better impression than that, might as well work in a field." Bobby snorted.

It was weird, he'd only met this guy, but it felt like he's known him for years, if by the way they were talking was anything to go by. Bobby stopped himself, he was getting too comfortable too quickly; he didn't know this guy, he'd only just met him a few days ago. They weren't best friends, or drinking buddys. The guy was in an accident, and he was just the first house he could make it to, he was just the help. He was always just the help.

He absently patted down his vest pockets; he'd hand him the keys, and he'd be out of his hair. One less person to worry about, and no more influx on his routine.

"Now," Crowley began again, "How about we see to splitting this, eh?"

Well, maybe the keys can wait just a bit longer; Stepping aside, the business man brushed by him, the heavy scent of men's cologne and a twinge of butterscotch lingered after the male. Still sporting black, like he was going to a funeral, he looked the same as before, exactly the same.

Why did he let him inside? Bobby wondered vaguely about his sudden lapse in judgement. He doesn't know this man and yet he's letting him in his house; he barely let Rufus in his house, and he'd known Rufus for years. The boys, Ellen and Jo were about it when letting people into his home. After everything, and everyone he's lost over the years, his home was all he had that never left, never changed, day in and day out, and now someone was in it.

"Coming Robert?" The deeply accented voice called from somewhere in the library, Bobby looked out of the door a moment, a split second decision.

"Yeah, I'm comin'." And with that, he grabbed the handle, closing the door with a subtle slam.

* * *

_Shitty chapters are shitty, (And short.) and I'm trying not to rush any relationship. Remember that._

_Well, there isn't much I have to say about this, other than how deeply sorry I am about the car scene at the beginning. I know my way around a car the same way I know my way around a tree; Either way, it's not looking good. My father knew a thing or two on cars, and so does most of everyone around me, which I ended up taking tips from. (Also Google is my best friend.) If It seems I rushing any proximate relationship, tell me. Right now though, I'm trying to fix up and set the characters, and the plot before pursuing any romantic relationship (Much like my non-existent love life.). Thank you for reading so far, and don't forget to review~! LLAP ^^_


	3. Seems pretty Satanic to me

**Disclaimer**:_ Characters are not mine! All characters belong to Supernatural._

**A/N:** _I haven't much to say, other than I hope I'm keeping these guys in as much character as I can (Given the circumstance of corse.) I might start posting this regularly every Tuesday, just because. I also want to inform you that, in spite of the alternate universe, the basic facts about Bobby and Crowley (later Dean, Castiel, Sam, Gabriel, and Lucifer.) Will stay the same. From their attire, where they live, family, and personality, down to the buttons of their shirt and the brand of alcohol they prefer. So, I'm letting you guys know, that the beliefs that I give them, and the things they will say, that is part of _their _characters, those are _their _beliefs. This story, is going to be slow, just letting you guys know, but I hope it suits your preferences. Alright, I hope I got my point across, and I hope you enjoy~! ^^_

**Warning:**_ Mild Language, mentions of Alcohol use._

* * *

Deep rapid burn, bitter after taste, swig, pour, drink, rinse, repeat. It seemed glass after glass was poured, and the subtle tension of strangers switched and melted away into a warming glow of talk and friendly laughter, jokes and stories well forgotten passed between two men like an old friend long since missed. Simple talk turned to jokes, and jokes to silly stories; to talk about nothing and everything all at once.

Crowley, evidentially, came from Canisbay Scotland, who, quote un quote "-Sailed to America for better opportunities." His father having been a Tailor, Crowley didn't want anything to do with that, having decided business, selling, location-location-location was more of his forte` anyhow.

The man had expressed a little bit more on his past, but nothing too deep. Never said a word about family life other than his father; other personal information kept hidden in a box, and lock up tight. Crowley didn't bring it up, and Bobby didn't ask; just as Bobby kept his own personal life, his past, hidden in some far away book on some shelf he'll never let anyone find. Bobby didn't say anything, and Crowley never asked. Like a silent mutual agreement neither made, but was thankful to have it there. A man has to have his secrets.

The minutes ticked away to hours, and all they did was talk, and laugh. Never too serious, and certainly never sad. Those were emotions for another day, another time, with another person. No, they were here to enjoy, and be enjoyed, platonically of course, the the time tick on by in a steady silent beat that nobody could hear.

"-Fergus, actually, isn't my real first name." The Scotsmen stated, reclining against the couch in Bobby's study. Bobby was sitting behind his desk, looking over the small clutter at the shorter man, who sat examining his clear class, twirling the alburn liquid inside.

"Your card say's otherwise." Bobby muttered, setting his glass onto his desk, the glass clanking against the wooden surface.

"Well of course," Crowley looked up from his drink, to give the hunter an obvious look, "America may accept any name, but most consumers do not." He glanced down at the glass in his hands once again, "They hear something wrong, and most assume it's satanic, and _bam-" _Crowley snapped his fingers, his front teeth pulling at his lower lip for a split second, "-Down goes business, nobody want's to buy from a man with a name like mine," A soft shrug, "I never understood it with you American's."

"Not all of us are like that." Bobby offered.

"No, no, not all of you," The business man sighed, "Just a majority of you, too many point fingers." Raising the glass to his lips he took a sip from his glass.

"Well, if Fergus isn't your real name, then what is it?"

"I've told you, Crowley."

"How come you told me your real name then, eh?" Bobby asked, a gruff eyebrow raising on his face.

There was a pause, where the shorter male looked like he was contemplating; It was a long moment before he opened his mouth. "You know," He began, twirling the glass in his delicate pale hands, "I haven't the slightest."

Bobby gave the business man a questionable look, "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Crowley stressed the words, "That I have no idea why I told you my real name," He hadn't given the hunter a look, but just continued to stare at the glass in his hands, moving his fingers over the soft pattern near the bottom, as if it were the most interesting thing he had ever laid his eyes upon. "It seemed like the right thing to do, I suppose."

There was a pause, "I don't get it then," Bobby stated, "Why would people assume that Crowley was some sort of satanic name? Wasn't there a few successful men somewhere in Europe with the name Crowley?"

"Indeed there were," The Scotsmen replied, "It also means _Descendant of the hard hero, _or _hardy warrior. _But I must say that I always prefered _Wood of Crows." _There was a sort of thoughtful chuckle that escaped Crowleys lips, something barely acknowledged. "Must scare these over righteous Americans with something so utterly innocent and simple as a name."

"I don't know about you, but Crowley seems pretty Satanic to me."

The Scotsmen snorted, "Oh, now you're just flirting."

Bobby made a soft yet sarcastic _mm hm _before bringing his drink to his lips, another swig, burn of the throat, bitter after taste.

"Did you know, that the name Robert means to have the desire to understand and help others with their problems," Crowley began, his fingers swiping away at the condensation build on his glass, "but, at the same time, can become too involved and worrying as the result." Crowley stated idly, "Good natured and affectionate and enjoy home and family life. Not to mention those who have the name tend to avoid issues, however, and put off until tomorrow decisions that should be made today."

Bobby looked up at the black clad man in skepticism, eyebrows furrowing together as he spoke. For some odd reason Bobby thought of the Impala sitting in his garage, or the dishes he never bothered touching. Crowley stopped abruptly, pressing his lips together in a thin line as his eyebrows furrowed. Setting aside the glass onto the couches' side table, he pulled back his left trench-coated sleeve slightly, reveling an old watch, before dawning crossed his face.

"_Bollocks," _Crowley cursed, pushing himself to his feet, "Ah, well Robert. I hate to leave so soon, but duty calls." He began, turning to give the hunter a friendly look, pointedly ignoring the blunt confusion that crossed the hunters face. Neither was certain if it was for the name outburst, or the fact that he was leaving, but it didn't matter. "Thank you, once again," He paused before waving his hand from his side a moment, "For the car, I mean."

Bobby was quiet for a moment, before shaking his head when he realised that Crowley was waiting for some sort of response. "Not at all."

The shorter man smiled, or more or less smirked, before pulling his keys out of his pocket. He turned his back on the hunter and began walking out, calling a subtle _goodbye _before he was gone. The soft eliciting sound of a creaky wooden door opening before footsteps receited out of them with a subtle slam moments after. Bobby looked at the direction of the back door a moment longer, rough hand reaching out and grasping the rest of his drink, downing the rest before pushing to his feet.

* * *

Days went to weeks, and weeks shifted quickly to months, and suddenly the strange man from his doorstep slowly began to ebb away from Bobby's conscious mind. He couldn't get rid of the Scottish mans existence from memory, no, that would be impossible; He was just another person to walk into his life, before quickly stepping back out again. It was like everyone else, just another passing face, always another passing face before it becomes blurred and unfocused like everyone elses.

It was the fact that Crowley's face hasn't blurred _yet _was driving the hunter absolutely crazy.

By now, a passing look, a bump in the road, a friendly hello between two strangers would have left the hunters mind by the first week, _at least _but Crowley's face still seemed as vivid as ever. Bobby remembered the way he laughed, and the deeply accented voice that seemed to vibrate into a delicate purr before a laugh or chuckle were to escape, even the slight pudgyness- the _roundness _of the mans face, all these little things Bobby could remember. But why?

Well, he really couldn't expect any less. It was a very interesting time, with a very interesting person, it has to be hard to forget such an imprint, yeah? Well, that would make sense. No break in his daily routine, and suddenly there is an abnormal stop, like a sudden skip in a heart-beat, or the pause in a metronome. It takes notice, because it's out of place, it's suddenly different and make-shift in a matter of moments and yet you have no idea why or how. Why did the heart skip? Was there failure? Lack of blood pressure? Or too much? What happened exactly to cause such a reaction? Same with the metronome. Why did it pause? Was it broken? Is it breaking? Does it require attention? Or should you wait and see what happens?

Cause, effect. Something happens, something strange, and it causes a ripple effect, and branches off to many different questions that may or may not ever be answered, if there ever was an answer to begin with.

Cause; A man in an accident and came looking for help. Effect; A lapse in routine and judgement, leaving an imprint that Bobby just can't smear or blur the lines to.

Goddamn it was frustrating.

The calls still came in, as per usual, at least that was the same. The house was cleaner, but that wasn't too different from before. He still drank the same beer, still took calls, worked cases, and fixed cars, there was nothing different. Regardless, something _felt _different. Something felt _wrong._

Bobby just couldn't place it, this deep empty feeling in his chest like something was completely and utterly _off, _and it was driving him mad.

His routine was the same, the times he woke up and fell back into sleep never fluctuated, he seemed to be in good health. Perhaps he was just getting old; although 43 didn't seem that damn elderly, it could be a factor.

Age could always be a factor; too young to understand, too old to be wise, too middle-aged to be an idjit. But, then again, most people are anyhow, being an idjit doesn't really have that much of a age-limit, now does it?

Autumn had passed into winter, and winter into spring. The spring was finally settling into a much warmer climate as the year began to pass on, the holidays long gone, and case's were starting to come in more frequently now that the creatures were warm enough to peek out of their holes. So many damn animals everywhere, and too many damn idjits trying to get rid of 'em. If you can't kill it, then leave it alone for the professionals to take care of.

The other hunters never listen to him, and just keep calling, all too stubborn to get some _real _help.

Not that he wasn't real help, he just wasn't getting paid for it.

Bobby was so tired, frustrated with everyone and everything, including himself, he needed a drink but he was out, and he was so goddamn tired of eating chinese food. He had to shower, brush his teeth, use the washroom, he really needed to finish fixing up the Impala, and not forget to clean it again; Books were scattered everywhere, and papers were cluttering the ground, it was time to do dishes again, and Bobby felt like hell.

"_Balls." _Bobby cursed under his breath, tossing _The Lovely Bones _onto his desk. Sam had suggested some books from Bobby to read that weren't strictly research, and were more for entertainment; Bobby had piles of books like that, but Sam had insisted he read a book from _this century. _And since the hunter flat out told Sam _no _on _50 Shades of Gray _and _The Naked and The Dead, _Sam had eventually quit trying to convince him to get books, and ended up at the house a week later with a satchel full of these books that look both new, but used.

He now owned the whole _Harry Potter _series, as well as _The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, Twilight, True Blood, _not to mention a few that he knew, like _Fahrenheit 451, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Pet Semetary, _and the like. He didn't know most of these names, nor the authors; and what the hell was Sam doing with a copy of _The Earth, My Butt, and other Big Round Things.-_?

Some of the novels looked like porno's waiting to happen, while others looked like you had to have serious time and patience to finish. Some looked interesting, and some didn't have much of a cover other than a black color and the title. Bobby had grabbed ahold of _The Lovely Bones _out of curiosity about a week after the boy had dropped them all off, (Sam having helped put them on one of hunters filled up shelves) and given it a gander.

Hasn't been able to set it down since.

Maybe reading for entertainment wasn't something too bad, but it was definitely something he didn't get enough time to do. With everything on his plate, he's only been able to read 13 chapters- It's been 3 months.

Pushing himself out of his chair, he stretched his back. Although he'd been _dying _to push his nose into his book, he really needed to go get some food; and _not _chinese. Bobby looked over at the cluttered mess that was his desk, and mumbled to himself.

A loud ringing caught his attention, and he found himself glaring at the phone; he was tired of calls, he just wanted to eat. Never the less, his hand swipped down and snatched the phone off of the table in a familiar motion he was far too used to, answering it.

"Bobby speakin'." He answered.

"_Hey Bobby," _Now wasn't that a familiar voice.

"Hey Dean," Bobby replied warmly, moving so he could walk into the kitchen, heels thudding.

"_Long time, man."_

"No kiddin'," Bobby grunted, "How's Lisa and Ben doin'?"

"_Great, actually we were about to head up to see Sammy, you speak to him lately?"_

Bobby made a throaty noise, "Yeah, 'bout a week ago, why? S'he in trouble?"

"_Nah," _a pause, "_Just haven't been able to get ahold of him, you hear about his new Job?"_

"He got a new job?" The hunter questioned, hand wrapping around the handle of his fridge, and pulling it open, before peering inside. _leftovers, leftovers, leftovers.._

"_Yeah, at some place called Purgatory Placements-"_

_...-The words '_Purgatory Placements'_printed out neatly on the front, with a number printed underneath it, the name _Fergus McLeod _in the center. He turned the small card over to see a message scrawled out in neat handwriting.-_

"_-Name ring any bells?" _Dean asked, and Bobby wondered briefly if he had missed anything. There was a pause, before Bobby closed the fridge with a light slam.

"A few," Bobby commented off handedly, before his hand slipped into his pocket, finger brushing against the rough edge of a small piece of paper, idly, or pointedly, tracing the cards edge with the tip of his finger. "I believe I heard it somewhere."

"_Yeah, same here. It's like I hear the name everywhere, but at the same time no one knows about it, I don't get it."_

Bobby shrugged nonchalantly, briefly forgetting that Dean couldn't see him. "When'd he get the job?"

"_Few weeks back, I think. He was talking about it, all happy and excited. It's been a while since he's sounded happy, it's a good change, you know. After all that happened." _Bobby pressed his lips together into a thin line.

They never talked about what happened, it was awful, and they never uttered a word about it out of respect. It's been a few years, but they both knew it was a sore and sour subject for Sam; how could it not be? Karen was a sore subject for Bobby, Mary and John Winchester were a sore subject for Dean, since Sam was too little to remember them anyway.. And then there was Jessica.

Jessica was the love of Sam's life, his other half, his missing piece that made him whole, Jessica was everything to him. One day out of college, while him and Dean were out, there had been a fire and she didn't make it out alive. Bobby tried to sympathise with him, but it was too hard to compare Karen to anybody, even for comfort reasons, so he settled with empathy; still, Sam was a wreck.

Him and Dean did everything they could for him, they tried everything they could to get him out of this shell he crawled into. They were too late to try anything else once he met Ruby.

Bobby grimaced, Ruby was a sore subject for everyone. A hard-core deep woman with a careless attitude had waltzed into Sam's life, and for a moment, Bobby and Dean had thought that it was a good thing, that he was getting out of his shell and finally pulling through. On the contrary, Ruby had made everything worse.

Bobby shook his head, he wasn't going to think too deeply on it. "Well that's definitely somethin'." Bobby replied, crossing an arm over his abdomen and holding his side.

There was a soft chuckle on the other end, "_Yeah, it's good to hear that he's not zoned out in La La Land where he's been for a while."_

"No kiddin'," The hunter murmured, "What about you Dean?"

"_What do you mean?"_

"You okay?" The elder man asked, "You know, after that virus scare, you hadn't really talked much."

"_Nah, I'm fine. You know me, always pulling through."_

"You damn Winchester's," Bobby chuckled, "Well, if you ever need to talk-"

"_Bobby," _Deans voice halted his train of thought, "_We are _not _having another Chick-Flick moment, I'm fine! Really, if I've got something I need to tell you, I will."_

"Ya' lyin' idjit."

There was a sharp chuckle on the other end, causing the side of Bobby's mouth to twitch upward, just the slightest. "_I hear ya' Bobby," _a pause, "_I'll call you back with any updates on 'em, alright? Alright, I'll talk to you later."_

"Whatever," He rolled his eyes, straightening his back, "Bye."

"_See ya' Bobby." _The hunter pulled the phone away when the line went dead, thumb pressing over 'end' just in case, before setting it off to the side, eyes glancing over at the fridge a moment, before hearing his stomach growled violently at him.

He really needed to stop putting these things off. Pushing off of the table, he ran his rough hands over his face. Better now than never.

* * *

_Fill in chapter, and I'm going to be adding the boys' POV at some point, so you see their developing lives and relationships as well. (Like I said, Destiel, Sabriel) and all the works. I didn't want to throw Crowley back in, not yet anyways, otherwise I'm stuck with a awful plot, and a romance that is moving too damn quickly for words. I hope you guys like so far~! Chapters will eventually begin to get longer as the story progresses. Let me know what you guys think! Really! I would _love _to know your guy's opinion! Leave a review down below, and give me your thoughts. I really need to know if I'm doing something wrong. Never the less, thank you for spending your time to read this~! ^^ LLAP_


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